Ceremony of Innocence
by Marvelous
Summary: Scott has a rough time of it at Alkali Lake.
1. Default Chapter

Title: CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE  
  
Author: Marvelous (Marvel2019@aol.com)  
  
Summary: Scott has a rough time of it at Alkali Lake.  
  
Rating: R for adult situations, language, and rape in later chapters.  
  
Notes: For everyone who wanted more Scott in X2. Events occur within the basic framework of the second movie, but extreme and gratuitous liberties have been taken with the plot.   
  
Chapter One  
  
Maybe if he lay perfectly still, the pain in his head would go away.  
  
Scott Summers lay on his stomach on what felt like a cold cement floor. It hurt too much to think about it, but Scott had the distinct impression he wasn't supposed to be here. He tried to sit up, ignoring a fresh wave of pain ripping through his head, and discovered he couldn't move his hands. In fact, they were somehow pinned behind his back. With a growing sense of alarm, Scott tried to pull his wrists apart, and found they were secured by what seemed to be metal cuffs.  
  
Scott blinked. Cuffs? There were so many things wrong with the present situation that he couldn't even begin to sort them all out. He rolled over onto his back with difficulty and struggled up into a seated position, then looked around his surroundings.  
  
He was in a small, poorly lit, windowless concrete room. The furnishings consisted of a metal chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room and a bare metal table. Scott looked around the room at the sole exit, a closed and solid-looking metal door.  
  
It was an interrogation room of some kind, Scott guessed. That wasn't a comforting thought. Scott forced himself to focus on whatever sequence of events could have brought him to this place. He and Professor Xavier had gone to visit Magneto in his plastic prison. Because it was best to come prepared whenever Magneto was involved, Scott had taken the precaution of wearing his X-Men uniform and visor instead of the sunglasses he preferred to wear in public. He was still in his uniform, he now saw, though his long coat was gone. His visor, of course, was still securely in place.  
  
He had been attacked. Now he remembered. There had been a warning shout from the professor, locked in the plastic cell with his old friend Magneto. Scott had been ambushed, first by the two security guards, whom he had quickly neutralized. Then the woman had jumped at him, the beautiful, severely-dressed Asian woman, who shot him with what Scott guessed was a tranquilizer dart before launching herself through the air at him. Scott had a fragment of a memory of a long, elegant leg arcing through the air in the general direction of his head, and then nothing more before waking up in this dismal room. From the pain in his skull, Scott judged it was the kick more than the dart that had taken him out. Embarrassing, really.  
  
He wasn't certain, but he suspected he had been drugged again, perhaps more than once, after he had been kicked unconscious. The foggy muddle in his head was hard to explain otherwise, and anyway, he had a sneaking hunch he had been asleep for quite a while. Long enough to transport him to this place, wherever it was.  
  
Scott had no idea who was behind this. As a general rule, he was inclined to suspect Magneto whenever possible, but Magneto had succumbed as quickly as the Professor to the gas that had been pumped into his cell. Scott and the Professor had visited Magneto to fish for information on the recent mutant attack on the President. Was it possible they had inadvertently stumbled upon something important, and someone was now taking pains to make sure they were kept out of the way? If so, what was it?   
  
Scott became aware of a commotion on the other side of the metal door. In no condition for a surprise ambush, especially since he couldn't use his optic blasts with his arms manacled behind his back, he focused on getting to his feet, preferring to confront his abductors in as dignified a manner as present circumstances would allow.  
  
The door opened. The figure in the doorway hesitated, probably to make sure of Scott's whereabouts before entering. A soldier in plain fatigues, armed with an assault rifle. No nonsense.  
  
Evidently he'd been detained by the military. Was this an official, government-sanctioned detainment? Scott didn't know if that was better or worse than a private abduction. Better in that there'd presumably be limits to what they could do to him. Worse in the long-range repercussions for the X-Men.  
  
The soldier, a thick-set, muscle-bound kid a few years younger than Scott with a pale blond crewcut and a ruddy complexion, waggled his assault rifle in Scott's direction as a warning for him to stay put. What did the kid expect him to do with his hands bound? Head-butt him? Kick his shins?  
  
Two other men entered the room. One was another soldier, not as husky as the first, yet, judging by his exposed forearms, in peak physical condition. He was older, too, probably a decade older than Scott, which would put him somewhere in his late thirties. Unlike the blond kid, he didn't seem to view Scott with any particular malice. In fact, he almost looked amused.  
  
Scott's attention was drawn to the third man, who was middle-aged and portly. A senior officer, judging by his uniform. He smiled at Scott, a wide, friendly smile.  
  
"Ah. Scott Summers. I wasn't sure we'd find you awake." The man's voice was jovial, with a tinge of a southern drawl around the edges.  
  
The use of his name frightened and alarmed Scott. The man knew him, and not just as Cyclops, field leader of the X-Men. It implied he was here for a very specific purpose.  
  
It simultaneously dawned on Scott that this man wasn't a complete stranger, either. It took him a minute to figure out where he knew him from, then he finally dredged up a memory from almost ten years ago. Raised voices in the foyer of the mansion. The professor, calm as ever, trying to soothe this man, who was shouting slurs against Xavier, against the Institute, against mutants. With effort, Scott came up with a name to match the face. "Stryker," he said. "You're Jason's father."  
  
Jason Stryker. A student at the Institute, back when Scott and Jean were students themselves. Jason had a wild, powerful mutant ability to manipulate the thoughts of those around him, to implant bizarre and disturbing images that were indistinguishable from reality. He used his power with vindictive, imaginative glee, and tormented everyone in the mansion for several long weeks before the professor decided he was too much of a danger to the other students to continue teaching him. It was a decision Jason's father had not accepted peacefully.  
  
The man chuckled. "Colonel Stryker, if you would be so kind. I've spent thirty years in uniform to earn the title, so I'd like to get some good use out of it." He smiled at Scott, full of down-home charm and friendly intentions. Scott felt chilled. "Good memory on you, boy. But then, you always were Xavier's pride and joy, weren't you?"  
  
"What's this all about? Where's Professor Xavier?" Scott asked.  
  
Stryker waved a hand. "He's nearby. He's fine. Sleeping peacefully. Don't concern yourself with him."  
  
"I'd like to see him," Scott said. He was determined to keep the conversation civil and reasonable for as long as possible. He was aware of an undercurrent of malice emanating from beneath Stryker's genial demeanor. Best to keep that malice at bay while he could.  
  
"Not possible, I'm afraid. But please, you don't really think I'd harm him, after all the trouble I've taken to bring you two here alive?"  
  
"Why are we here?" Scott asked.  
  
Stryker yawned. "Well, really, my main business happens to be with Charles. The fact that you came along is a lucky bonus." He gestured toward Scott's visor. "That's a remarkable power you have there, boy. We should be able to put you to some good use."  
  
"What makes you think I'd work for you?" Scott asked. He was careful to make it sound like a genuine query instead of an accusation.  
  
"Because you won't have any choice." Again, that friendly smile. "That sounds much worse than it will be. In fact, you won't mind at all. Oh, maybe some part of you might object a little - I'm not really sure how that works, truth be told - but most of you won't care one little bit."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Impossible to keep his tone completely neutral on that one.  
  
Stryker pursed his lips for a moment. "Perhaps it'd be easier just to show you." He looked toward the open door. "Yuriko, would you come in here for a moment?"  
  
The beautiful Asian woman who had knocked Scott out back in Magneto's prison entered the room. She didn't spare Scott a glance as she walked over to stand at Stryker's side. She carried a small metal case. Her face was perfectly blank, though lovely; her most striking feature were her eyes, which glinted with a silver sheen.  
  
"I believe you've already met Yuriko Oyama, my personal assistant," Stryker said. "A mutant as well, and completely loyal to me, at least under the right circumstances. Yuriko?"  
  
By response, the woman turned her back to Scott. She lifted her thick, dark ponytail out of the way and bared her neck. Scott could see a small circular mark, like a burn or a scar, directly in the center of her neck.  
  
Stryker tapped on the mark with one thick finger. "A small administration of a rather remarkable serum, and she becomes a most agreeable ally. It has a similar effect on all mutants." He looked at Scott. "As it will on you."  
  
Yuriko straightened up and handed the metal case to Stryker, then stepped aside. Scott felt his stomach clench slightly at the woman's cold, mechanical movements. She seemed more like a zombie in her reactions than a flesh-and-blood human.  
  
Stryker set down the case on the metal table and unlatched it. He withdrew an exceptionally large plastic hypodermic needle. It was filled with a cloudy yellow substance.  
  
Scott knew he didn't want that needle anywhere near him. Without moving his face, he slid his glance toward the open door, thankful the red quartz of his visor hid his eyes from view.  
  
The dark-haired soldier was leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed in front of his chest in a very un-militaristic pose. He appeared relaxed and nonchalant as he openly appraised Scott. Scott wasn't fooled. Even though he had no visible weapon, this man would be more of a threat than the blond kid. And then, of course, there was Yuriko Oyama to contend with.  
  
The blond kid was moving toward him now. He motioned with his assault rifle. "Against the wall, mutant," he said. When Scott didn't respond, he grabbed his shoulder with his free hand and turned him around. He pinned Scott to the wall with one hand pressed between his shoulder blades. Scott twisted his head to the side, and found the muzzle of the rifle about an inch from his nose. "Don't move, mutant," the kid said. Scott stared into eyes slitted in hatred, and saw no choice other than to obey.  
  
A hand grasped the back of his hair and jerked his head forward to face the wall. Stryker stood behind him. The dark-haired soldier and Oyama had not moved from their positions.  
  
Pressure on the back of his head forced him to bend forward until his neck was fully exposed. Scott felt Stryker's fingers pushing down the high collar of his uniform jacket. When Stryker spoke, his face close to Scott's ear, his voice had finally lost the affable just-folks quality.  
  
"Because in a minute you're not going to have sufficient control over yourself to care about such things, I want you to know this now, that this - everything that happens to you from this point on - this is all Xavier's fault. Jason was ruined because of him, it's only fitting I ruin his golden boy. Biblical, almost, if you want to look at it like that."  
  
There was a burning pain at the base of his neck. Not the expected sharp pain of a needle, but a fierce acid burn. Helpless, Scott struggled uselessly, held in place as the acid ate into his skin.  
  
His vision shifted and blurred. His world, which was always washed in a perpetual red hue owing to the necessity of his visor, became softer around the edges. He felt acutely nauseous. His knees threatened to give out, and he broke into a cold sweat. For a moment, he was sharply disoriented. Not only was he not quite certain where he was any more, he was having trouble keeping track of who he was as well.  
  
Then, just as quickly, his world became clearer again. He was himself, Scott Summers, Cyclops, and he was currently in a very dangerous situation. No time for nausea or confusion; he needed to find a way out of this, to rescue himself and the professor.  
  
He remained perfectly still. The hand released the hold on his hair, but he didn't stir, resting his forehead against the cool concrete wall. Instinct told him not to move until he had figured out the situation.  
  
Unexpectedly, the blond kid released him and backed away. Scott still didn't dare straighten up. His heart was beating faster than it should; remembering the eerie composure of Oyama, he concentrated on taking deep, slow, even breaths.  
  
"Scott." Stryker's voice was oddly gentle now. "Turn around and look at me."  
  
Wordlessly, Scott straightened up. He was aware of the soldier at his side, ready to restrain him if he made any sudden moves. He turned around slowly, his face perfectly composed, and looked at Stryker.  
  
The visor was useful for many things. With his eyes thus obscured, Scott knew it was difficult for people to gauge his reaction even under the best of circumstances. Stryker frowned as he studied Scott's blank expression. Scott merely stared back.  
  
After a moment, the corners of Stryker's lips curled up in a careful smile. "Good. Very good," he said. He motioned toward the blond kid. "Undo his handcuffs. But watch him."  
  
The soldier looked like he wanted to protest. He hesitated, then produced a set of keys from a ring hooked onto his belt. He moved behind Scott, grabbed his wrists, and unfastened the cuffs. Scott felt a surge of adrenaline. He focused on taking deep, slow breaths so as not to betray his emotions. When his wrists were free, he let his arms drop freely to his sides. This was much better.  
  
The dark-haired man was still near the doorway. Thankful again that his eyes were obscured, Scott slid his glance over to him. The man still seemed relaxed, almost bored. He was staring directly at Scott. Even though Scott knew it was impossible to see his eyes, he had the uncomfortable feeling the man knew he was looking at him, like he wasn't fooled by Scott's zombie act. He'd be a problem, though the biggest threat was Yuriko Oyama. Scott didn't take the blond kid too seriously, though he seemed awfully fond of waving his weapon around.  
  
Oyama first, then. With a movement he had practiced until it was swift and seamless, Scott brought his hand up to the side of the visor, pivoted, flicked the dial with a touch of his fingertips, and shot a thick blast of pure concussive force at the woman. Remembering how quickly she had recovered from his blasts in Magneto's prison, Scott didn't hold much back. It slammed her into the wall, which cracked around her.  
  
Before the blond soldier had time to react, Scott's next blast flung him across the room. Ignoring Stryker for the moment, Scott turned his attention to the dark-haired man.  
  
Only to find that the man had already crossed the distance between them. Even as Scott turned, he found himself caught from behind. Muscular arms closed around his arms and jerked them down, preventing him from using the visor. "Nice try, baby," the man hissed in his ear. Scott crouched down and tried to throw the man off of him.  
  
The dark-haired soldier was having none of it. Before Scott could get him off the ground, he released his hold on Scott. Scott turned quickly, raising his hand to the side of his visor. And found himself facing the snub muzzle of a pistol. He froze.  
  
Oyama was on her feet now. She seemed to have suffered no ill effects from having just smashed apart a concrete wall with her body. Wasting no time, she slid behind Scott and wrestled his arms behind his back in a neat, effective armlock. Even with the dark-haired man still pointing the gun at him, Scott struggled against her grasp. It was useless. His arms were restrained as securely as they had been in the cuffs.  
  
Scott cursed himself mentally. His instincts had warned him to watch out for the dark-haired man, and yet he had still ended up underestimating him. As for Oyama, she was out of his league entirely. His mistake. Scott wondered what it would end up costing him.  
  
Stryker had remained in one place during the brief attack. His face grew scarlet with fury. He strode over to Scott. "Goddamn it! Why didn't it work?" He shoved the dark-haired man to one side, raised one large hand, and backhanded Scott across the face. Scott instinctively shut his eyes until he was certain his visor had remained in place.  
  
Stryker stood in front of him, breathing heavily. Eventually, he appeared to regain his composure, though his cheeks were flushed with spots of bright color above the sides of his beard. "So it appears Cyclops is resistant to my little potion," he said. "How disappointing."  
  
His mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile as he regarded Scott, who was still held in place by Oyama's unnatural grip. The dark-haired soldier had reholstered his weapon and once more leaned against the wall, still vaguely amused by the scene in front of him.  
  
"Not to worry. We'll have to make sure the next application is a little stronger. In the meantime, however, I think we'll keep that dangerous little talent of yours under more careful control."  
  
Stryker turned away from Scott and rummaged through the metal case on the table. Scott couldn't shift his position enough to see what he was doing. Oyama's grip on his arms was unyielding. If he struggled too much, he'd probably end up dislocating his own shoulders.  
  
Presently, Stryker stood and approached Scott again. Scott saw that he held a thick metal hoop, a collar of some kind. He shrank back against Oyama as Stryker approached him.  
  
Stryker smiled at his reaction. "Don't be frightened. This will only hurt a bit. At first, at least."  
  
"What the hell is that?" Scott asked. He hated the note of fear that crept into his tone.  
  
Stryker didn't answer. "Hold still," he said. With one hand, he held Scott's head in place by his hair. He pulled the collar open by a hinge and circled it around Scott's neck. Scott caught a glimpse of two slim inch-long metal prongs on the inside of the collar. The sharp tips of the prongs touched the bump on the back of his neck where his spinal column connected to the base of his brain, right below the acid burn mark. Stryker's fingers felt the back of Scott's neck and made a minute adjustment to the position of the collar.  
  
The prongs were plunged into Scott's neck with one quick, forceful push. Scott was prepared, but he still couldn't help jerking away in pain. Stryker smiled briefly at that, then snapped the collar shut. There was a slight mechanical whir; Scott realized the collar was automatically adjusting itself to his neck.  
  
"It's hooked into your nervous system now," Stryker said. "I wouldn't try removing it by yourself. You'll only end up giving yourself a whole lot of pain."  
  
It was already causing him a fair amount of pain. The inch-long prongs were fully embedded into his skin, probably somewhere in the general area of his pineal gland. Or did he mean the pituitary gland? All he knew for sure was that he didn't care to have people shoving sharp objects into his brain. At least Stryker seemed to know what he was doing. Scott could have ended up paralyzed. Or lobotomized.  
  
Now that he had a moment to think about something other than the pain from the prongs, Scott knew what the collar was supposed to do. The ever-present pressure behind his eyes from his optic blasts, the pressure he had felt every moment since his mutation had developed at adolescence, was gone.  
  
Still, it was more than reflex that made him shut his eyes tightly when Stryker reached up and removed his visor. "Open your eyes," Stryker said, in a tone that left no room for argument. Scott could tell from his voice that, whatever Stryker expected to happen, he had stepped prudently to the side, out of Scott's line of sight.  
  
Seeing no alternative, Scott opened his eyes and viewed his surroundings with his natural vision for the first time since he was fourteen.  
  
Everything considered, if given any choice in the matter, he would have picked vastly different surroundings for this auspicious moment. Even seen with the full color spectrum instead of the endless shades of red the visor limited him to, the concrete room was dingy and depressing. It was small consolation to Scott that at least Stryker could see the unmasked hatred in his eyes. Stryker didn't look intimidated.  
  
"Ah! Success at last!" He chortled at Scott's expression. "Don't look at me like that, boy. You should thank me. You could almost pass for human now." He reached around to the base of Scott's neck and fingered the collar thoughtfully. Scott winced as Stryker pressed lightly against the prongs. "A careful snip or two in the right spot, a few minutes with a scalpel, and you could be free of your mutation forever."  
  
He smiled. "But I think we'll hold off on that. I still have hopes of using that power of yours. In the meantime..." He turned his attention back to the case. He picked up what looked like a small rectangular box made of some dull metal and held it up. Scott tried to see what it was.  
  
Stryker slid his thumb along a flat dial on the box. Instantly, a burning electrical pain ripped down the length of Scott's spinal cord and moved through his nervous system, spreading to his very nerve endings. The jolt made Scott lose all ability to stand on his own. Only the fierce grip of Yuriko Oyama kept him on his feet.  
  
Just as immediately, the pain stopped. Stryker smiled at him. "As you can see, it just became a little easier to keep you in line." With another wiggle of his thumb, he twisted the dial.  
  
Being prepared for the pain didn't make it any better. Scott's knees gave out on him. At a nod from Stryker, Oyama released her grip on him. Scott felt himself tumbling forward.  
  
As everything around him went to red, then black, the last thing he was aware of was the cold feel of concrete against his face. 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE  
  
Author: Marvelous  
  
Chapter Summary: Scott's ordeal continues.  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Upon waking, Scott was pleased to realize that at least the pain in his spine was gone. The collar was still locked around his neck; even without touching it, Scott could feel the dull pain from the two prongs embedded in his skin.  
  
His uniform and boots had been removed. Sitting up, Scott saw he was now dressed in loose-fitting fatigues similar to the ones the two soldiers had been wearing. He was barefoot, and his hands were manacled in metal cuffs in front of him.  
  
He was in a small holding cell, constructed of the same dark concrete as the interrogation room. Same sturdy-looking metal door, too. He had been deposited on a metal bunk bolted into the concrete wall, with a thin mattress and a threadbare but clean blanket of olive drab wool.  
  
His surroundings could have been worse, given the nature of his captivity. A glance around the room revealed a sink and a toilet in the corner next to the bunk. Even better. Scott slid off the bunk and stood up. He winced at the chill of the concrete floor against his bare feet. He made his way to the sink and turned on the tap. Cold water gushed out in a comforting flow. Scott scooped some into his cupped hands and splashed his face. He tasted the water: metallic, but probably okay to drink.  
  
Lacking a towel, he wiped his face with his hands, careful not to splash water on the collar. Didn't want to get electrocuted on top of everything else. For a moment, he wished he had a mirror in the cell. It had been fifteen years since he had seen his own eyes; as long as he was forced to wear the blasted collar, it'd be nice to refresh his memory of what they looked like.  
  
Scott walked over to the solid metal door. Testing the handle would be an exercise in futility, but he did it anyway. Locked. No surprise there. The door had a small barred window, too narrow to reach through. Scott settled for glancing through it to the hallway outside the room. He found himself looking at a dark, empty corridor. Concrete, again. He had no idea where he was, to the nearest state. Nearest country, really.  
  
Someone was coming. Scott drew back from the door at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Automatically, he reviewed and discarded ideas for escape attempts - hiding behind the door, pretending to be asleep, sick, dead, having a seizure, taking a hostage, making a run for it. With his optic blasts gone and his hands bound, he wouldn't get far. Stryker wanted him alive, that much was clear. A better option, though less emotionally satisfying, would be to simply wait it out.  
  
Anyway, these guys weren't careless, whoever they were. Scott saw a face peer through the small window. It was the blond soldier. Scott remained where he was, standing a few feet away from the door, and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. Under the circumstances, that wasn't difficult.  
  
The door was unbolted and pushed open. Another soldier, one Scott hadn't seen before, stepped into the room. The blond kid stood just behind him, openly glaring at Scott. Both held assault rifles.  
  
The other man motioned with his rifle at Scott. "Move. Slowly."  
  
Scott didn't obey immediately. He would be cooperative at first, within reason, because he didn't see a better alternative, but that didn't mean he would jump at their commands. The blond kid snorted in impatience and grabbed Scott's arm. He jerked him forward. "Now, mutant!"  
  
Resigned, Scott let himself be pulled out of the room. Though careful not to show it, he was curious to see more of his surroundings. Hopefully, he could find some clue to help him figure out where he was. As he was marched down the corridor, he scanned the area. This would be far easier to do covertly if he still had his visor. He also wasn't used to seeing everything without the heavy wash of red; even the dim fluorescent lights were hurting his unprotected eyes.  
  
By now, Scott was convinced that the soldiers were genuine military. Special Ops, most likely. That in itself was disturbing; did it mean that his and the professor's abductions were sanctioned by the government? If that was the case, had similar attacks been made on the other X-Men? Scott tried not to think about Jean. He allowed himself only a fleeting wish that she was safe, wherever she was.  
  
The compound, however, looked more industrial than strictly military. They had entered a massive high-ceilinged chamber, lined with huge turbines and heavy equipment, some of which was stored behind metal fences. There was also a low, steady roar that Scott had been able to hear from his cell. If he focused on it, it sounded like a rush of water. It was possible they were inside a dam. If so, which one?  
  
Something tickled at the back of Scott's memory, some recent discussion about an non-operational dam. Wolverine. Scott had it, suddenly. Alkali Lake, up in Alaska, where Wolverine had gone to look for clues to his missing past. He had returned without finding anything. Still, the professor had been certain enough to send him up there in the first place, and the professor rarely made mistakes of this nature. But what could connect Wolverine to Stryker? Stryker's angry words to Scott implied this was part of a personal vendetta against Xavier.  
  
Scott had no more time to dwell on such matters as he was forced through a doorway at the far end of the chamber. He found himself in the interrogation room from before.  
  
He was a little surprised Stryker wasn't waiting for him. Instead, the dark-haired soldier was leaning against the table in the center of the room. He straightened up as the soldiers entered the room with their captive. His implacable gaze fixed on Scott. "Ah," he said. He motioned toward the metal chair bolted in the center of the room. "Put him there," he said.  
  
With what Scott considered to be wholly unnecessary force, considering how cooperative he was being, the blond kid dragged him over to the chair and pushed him against it. Frustrated with his enforced helplessness yet seeing no sensible escape possibility, Scott sat down. The blond soldier stuck the assault rifle under his chin as a silent warning not to move. The other one dropped in front of Scott and uncuffed his hands. Each wrist was then secured to the arms of the chair by thick leather straps; even without testing the restraints, Scott had a feeling he wasn't going anywhere until someone saw fit to unbuckle him. His legs, too, were spread and his ankles fastened to the chair legs. Throughout this process, the dark-haired man simply watched Scott. He still looked amused. Scott felt a growing unease. Something about this man's scrutiny unnerved him more than the presence of Stryker himself would have.  
  
When Scott was at last securely fastened, the dark-haired man finally spoke. "Right, that's fine. You're dismissed, both of you."  
  
The blond kid straightened up. "But sir--"   
  
The dark-haired man just looked at him. The kid flushed. "Are you sure you want to handle this mutant by yourself, sir? The colonel said to be careful around him."  
  
"He's not going anywhere." The dark-haired man winked at Scott before turning back to his comrades. "I believe I dismissed you."  
  
"Yes, Lieutenant Jordan." The blond kid still didn't look happy about this, but he and the other man left the room without further protest. The metal door clanged shut behind them.  
  
Jordan. Scott now had a name to go with that perpetually-bemused face. Every bit of information was useful, or so his experience as an X-Man had taught him. It was telling that none of the soldiers had name tags on their clothing. Scott suspected this entire operation was of the off-the-record variety.  
  
Jordan leaned back against the desk and silently observed his prisoner. Scott stared back, careful not to reveal any anxiety. "Alone at last," Jordan finally said, a small smile on his lips. "Sleep well?" His tone was light and flippant.  
  
Scott could play that, too. "Out like a light."  
  
The corner of Jordan's mouth quirked. He continued to regard Scott. Scott shifted in his chair.  
  
"What happens now?" Scott asked, careful to sound only mildly curious.  
  
Again the quick smile. "Now I get to torture you, Scott."  
  
It was the answer he expected, though Scott still felt a quick thrill of fear. The use of his name was a little surprising. It was intimate, a little demeaning. Scott knew that had been the intention. He permitted himself a small shrug in reply, as if he were slightly bored by all this. As if threats of torture came every day.  
  
The smile widened. "The boss has ordered me to soften you up - that's his phrase - while he fixes up another batch of his brain juice. He seems to think it might make you a little more receptive to its powers if you've been knocked around a little first. At least that's what he says. Personally, I think he's just pissed it didn't work, and is taking it out on you. But that's between you and me."  
  
"Brain juice?" Scott asked. Casual, so casual.  
  
Jordan shrugged. "That shit in the hypo. Brain juice."  
  
"Yeah? Whose brain?" Scott asked.  
  
The smile twisted into a brief grimace. "You don't want to ask that. The boss does some freaky shit to mutants. Not his favorite class of people."  
  
"Yeah, I kind of guessed that," Scott said. He was a little surprised at how willing to talk Jordan seemed. Talking was infinitely preferable to getting tortured, so he tried to keep him going. "You feel the same?"  
  
Jordan shrugged again. "Doesn't matter much to me, mutant or human. I just like the thought of hurting you."  
  
"Thought you might," Scott said. "You seem the type."  
  
The man snorted. "Yeah, but here's the sticker. I'm not allowed to damage you. Might interfere with Stryker's plans for you. Limits my options."  
  
"Tough break," Scott said. He grabbed hold of that bit of information and used it like a protective shield. Pain was okay. Not ideal, but okay. He had spent much of his life since his mutation developed in one kind of pain or another - the headaches from his optic blasts, torn muscles from training sessions, injuries in combat. Pain was infinitely preferable to, say, mutilation. Or death.  
  
"I know," Jordan said, as if he were reading Scott's thoughts. "Basically reduces me to this." He held up the small metal box that controlled the collar. Scott felt a brief flash of revulsion.  
  
"Great," he said easily. "That should be entertaining for the thirty seconds or so before I pass out."  
  
"That's just because Stryker was giving it to you all at once. See, I can adjust the settings. Start out low and kind of build momentum." The smile tugged at Jordan's lips once more. "Before the end of our little session, I bet I get to hear you scream, baby."  
  
He flicked the dial. Scott felt a jolt as the current of pain traveled along his spine. He bent forward protectively as much as his restraints would allow, judging the intensity of the pain. Definitely weaker than before. Still mighty painful.  
  
Gloomily, he thought to himself that there was a good chance Jordan would win that bet. 


	3. Chapter 3

Title: CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE  
  
Author: Marvelous  
  
Chapter Summary: Scott's captor gets frisky.  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Scott held it as a small point of pride that he hadn't screamed, after all. The session of torment had been mercifully short, though still much too long for Scott's liking. He suspected Jordan had grown bored with simply twisting the dial, and bored with his captive's lack of interesting responses to the pain, and had eventually just let Scott fall into unconsciousness. When Scott awoke, he was back in his cell, with no clear idea how much time had actually passed. He spent what he thought was the night in restless sleep. He hadn't eaten since he and the professor had left the mansion, which, his body was telling him, was probably a day and a half ago. He was frustrated with his inability to find any opportunity to escape, or even to formulate any kind of effective plan. He also had heard nothing about the professor's whereabouts or condition; his mental link with the professor was silent, but that might be another side effect of the collar. It looked like their best chance for escape lay with the other X-Men mounting a rescue attempt. Which, with luck, they were planning at the moment.  
  
And here he was in the chair again, facing another fine afternoon - evening? - of torment. He was in no mood for the exchange of bantered pleasantries with Jordan before the torture began, but he played along as gamely as he could manage. It wouldn't do to let the other man see his weariness and frustration.  
  
The pain once again was awful, the metal prongs once more sending their currents of increasing intensity through his body. Scott had to clench his hands and dig his nails into his palms until he broke the skin to channel the pain into some physical outlet other than screaming. Or crying. Or begging. He remained silent through the worst of it, though his jaw ached from clenching his teeth together.  
  
Abruptly, Jordan released his hold on the dial. The pain stopped. He tossed the metal device onto the table behind him. "Well, this is dull," he said.  
  
Scott breathed deeply, getting himself under control. All of his training was coming in awfully handy these past couple of days.  
  
Jordan reached down beside the table. Scott's gaze followed his movement, relieved when the man picked up a water bottle instead of some new instrument of torture. Jordan pulled out the stopper and took a long drink. Scott was feeling a little along the lines of severely dehydrated himself, but he'd be damned if he'd ask his tormentor for a drink. He resisted a strong urge to lick his dry lips.  
  
Jordan suddenly drew close to him. Scott shrank back automatically against the back of his chair. Jordan smiled at his response, then reached out and held his chin in place with his free hand. Scott felt a small tickle of fear at the touch. Jordan tilted Scott's chin up, raised the water bottle, and thrust the nozzle between his lips. Startled, Scott swallowed, aware of Jordan's steady gaze on his face.  
  
Jordan withdrew the bottle. His thumb wiped across Scott's bottom lip before he released his hold on his chin. He drew away and leaned back against the table. He raised one foot and let it rest on the edge of Scott's chair, in between his spread knees. "You're tougher than you look," he said finally. He tilted his head to the side and examined him. "And I sure do like looking at you."  
  
Scott stared at him evenly and didn't reply. Jordan made some noise in the back of his throat. Scott couldn't tell if it were disgust or amusement. "There's about fifty of us in this damned place. We've been here for almost eight months now, day in, day out, not much in the way of leave."  
  
Not sure where this was leading, Scott filed away the information. Fifty soldiers. A lot to take on, even if he had the professor and his mental abilities to help him.  
  
"Fifty of us. All men," Jordan continued. "Unless, of course, you count the Oyama bitch, and she's not exactly receptive to our attentions." He slid off the table and removed his foot from Scott's chair. "So maybe you can understand why I like to look at a pretty boy like you."  
  
Scott kept his gaze locked with Jordan's. "I'm not exactly receptive to your attentions, either."  
  
The trace of a smile deepened. "Yeah, but you don't have any choice." He walked behind the chair, out of Scott's line of sight. Scott flinched at the touch of a hand on his bare neck, above the collar. "You pretty much have to sit there and accept whatever I decide to do to you."  
  
Scott remained still and outwardly composed. Jordan's hand stroked down his neck, across the collar, and slipped beneath the neck of Scott's shirt. "Damn, you're beautiful. Prettiest thing in this whole blasted place," Jordan said. "Too bad for you."  
  
A second hand joined the first. Jordan started unbuttoning Scott's shirt. He pulled it open as much as Scott's restrained arms would allow. Hands stroked his bare chest, moving across his nipples, the flat planes of his abdomen. Scott could hear Jordan's breath quicken. His own breath stuck in his throat when one of Jordan's hands dropped to the front of his pants and began toying with the button.   
  
"Stryker gave me your file to review, Scott," Jordan said in his ear. The top button of his pants was unbuttoned, the zipper unzipped. "You got that pretty mutant fiancee, the redhead, you've been dating her for what, ten years?" A low, mocking chuckle. "Doesn't give you much chance to play the field. Ever been fucked by a man before?"  
  
Scott didn't answer. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his mounting panic. Jordan laughed again. "See, that's a shame. Pretty thing like you would have lots of offers. I bet every man in this place would jump at the chance to break you in."  
  
A callused hand dipped into his briefs. Scott made a futile, automatic attempt to bring his knees together. Jordan chuckled.  
  
"Nice, baby. I bet you're tight as all hell," he said into Scott's ear. The hand tightened. Scott couldn't keep from wincing. He turned his face to the side so his tormentor couldn't see his reaction. Jordan laughed. "You like that, huh? I'm going to give you the ride of your life, baby."  
  
Scott closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. A sudden noise at the door seemed an answer to his prayers. Jordan released his grasp on Scott and straightened up. "Damn. Perfect timing," he said.  
  
The door opened. Stryker entered the room. Scott felt an odd rush of relief at the sight, though he knew this didn't mean anything good. Stryker raised his eyebrows as he looked at Scott's disarrayed clothing. Scott looked at his face, hoping to find some sign of disapproval at Jordan's actions. He found none. If anything, Stryker looked bemused.  
  
"There's an approach I admit I hadn't thought of, Lieutenant," Stryker said. He looked at Scott speculatively. Scott met his stare, careful not to show any of the distress he had experienced moments earlier. Stryker's lips pulled back in a humorless smile. "But I think we'll leave that for the time being. Right now, we have more immediate matters to attend to."  
  
He set down his metal case on the table and flipped the latches. Once more, he drew out a thick plastic hypodermic needle filled with cloudy yellow fluid. He held it up for Scott's perusal. "Time for round two, boy," he said. "A fresh batch, plus I took the liberty of concentrating it just a smidgen. Let's see if this proves more effective than the last." He nodded to Jordan. "Lieutenant, if you'd be so kind as to hold him still?"  
  
Jordan stood behind Scott once more and grasped a handful of his hair. He jerked Scott's head forward and exposed his neck.  
  
Scott braced himself. Once more, he felt the burning sensation of the acid against his neck. It might have been his over-stimulated imagination, but this batch burned into his flesh with more intensity than the first dose.  
  
He inhaled deeply. He felt the cold sweat again, the nausea. He was just as glad Jordan was keeping his head pushed down; the blood seemed to be rushing away from his head anyway, so it saved him the embarrassment of swooning.  
  
That seemed to be the extent of his physical reaction. For a moment, Scott wondered if he could pretend to be under the serum's power again. Maybe he could lull Stryker into releasing his restraints. Then he remembered Oyama's strange silver eyes. Stryker would know he was faking in an instant.  
  
He might as well take what joy he could in confounding Stryker's plans to corrupt him. "Did it take?" he heard Stryker ask. Jordan jerked Scott's head back.  
  
Scott allowed the faintest hint of a smirk to cross his usually composed features. Stryker examined his eyes, which, Scott presumed, were unchanged. "Afraid not," Scott said blithely. "Better luck next time."  
  
The answering slap across his face didn't surprise him. His ears rang from the blow.  
  
"Damn it all to hell!" Stryker said. "Why doesn't it work on you?"  
  
"Lucky, I guess," Scott replied with a flippancy he wasn't feeling. He had his own suspicions why it didn't work, something linked in with the scar tissue on his brain from injuries sustained in the plane crash that had killed his parents, but there was no need to tell this to Stryker. He should cool it with the smart remarks, but the frustration he'd felt over the past couple of days needed an outlet. He wondered if Stryker would be upset enough to turn him over to Jordan. He quickly squashed that line of thought. His situation was bad enough as it was; no need to let his imagination make it even worse.  
  
Stryker's gaze shifted from Scott to Jordan. With a lurch of his stomach, Scott realized Stryker was considering that very idea. "Perhaps it's time for a change of tactics," he said, almost to himself. "But first..."  
  
He reached into his case again and withdrew another syringe, this one normal-sized, and a little glass bottle. Scott couldn't read the bottle's label from where he sat. Stryker stabbed the needle through the lid of the bottle and sucked the fluid into the syringe.  
  
Stryker stooped down before him and rolled up the sleeve of Scott's shirt. Helpless, Scott could do nothing more than watch. With a practiced air, Stryker rubbed two fingers along Scott's inner arm to bring up the vein, then stabbed in the needle.  
  
Scott didn't bother asking what it was. A sedative of some kind, probably. That was okay; he could use the sleep. He could barely keep his head up. In fact, everything was getting a little blurry.  
  
Yep, a sedative. The rest of his world faded to black.   
  
Stryker checked the pulse of the unconscious prisoner. "He'll be out for at least the next twelve hours," he said. He looked at Jordan. "Care to take him back to his cell, lieutenant?"  
  
"My pleasure," Jordan answered easily. He unbuckled the restraints around Scott's wrists and ankles. While Scott was still in the chair, Jordan took the precaution of manacling his hands in front of his body. The kid was pretty far gone, but there was no sense being careless. He bent at the knees and hoisted Scott over his shoulder. Stryker looked at him, bemused.  
  
"Do you need any help?" he asked.  
  
"No, sir. I can handle him just fine," Jordan said. He patted Scott's back and shifted his grasp to hold him more securely.  
  
Stryker regarded him thoughtfully. "Very well. And, lieutenant?" he said as Jordan strode toward the door.  
  
Jordan turned.   
  
"Try not to make any detours along the way," Stryker said dryly, with a pointed look at the prisoner draped over his shoulder.  
  
Jordan smiled.  
  
Once in the cell, Jordan deposited his burden onto the bunk, then flipped him over onto his back. Scott moaned softly in his sleep, protesting the rough treatment.  
  
"You think that's bad, you ain't seen nothing, baby," Jordan said. He reached down and caressed the bruised cheek, traced his fingertips along the elegant jaw line. "Too pretty for your own good. Going to cause you nothing but problems," he said. He was aware of a growing sensation in his groin that had hung around ever since he first started torturing the young mutant. He looked down at the unconscious body sprawled across the bunk.  
  
Unable to resist, he climbed onto the still figure. Scott made another small noise of protest. Jordan lay flat across Scott's body, his erection pressing into Scott's abdomen.  
  
"Easiest thing in the world to just do you now, baby," he said. "But I'd rather have you awake when I do." He leaned forward and kissed Scott, biting the lower lip, letting his tongue slide into the slack mouth, before reluctantly drawing away. The cell was equipped with a hidden surveillance camera, and while he knew it wasn't monitored all the time - the compound had a lot of cameras, and it was a waste of time and effort to monitor them all - he didn't need to put on a free show for any possible viewers. He straightened his clothes, tucked his shirt tail back into his pants, gave Scott's cheek a final pat, and left the cell.  
  
Scott shifted on the bunk and drifted deeper into unconscious sleep. 


	4. Chapter 4

Title: CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE  
  
Author: Marvelous  
  
Chapter Summary: Wolverine's arrival fails to improve Scott's situation. Movie continuity is thrown out the window.  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Wolverine was barely inside the dam, and already things weren't going according to plan.  
  
Getting inside the compound hadn't been difficult. He had just walked up the water overflow tunnel and surrendered himself to the nervous cluster of heavily-armed soldiers who surrounded him. Somewhere in the chaos, Mystique had seamlessly infiltrated the group. The metamorph had taken the form of one of the soldiers and simply walked on in. If he allowed himself to dwell on it, Wolverine figured the body of the poor sucker she had replicated was probably freezing in one of the snowdrifts up on the surface. Unlike the X-Men, Mystique didn't seem to have much regard for the sanctity of human life. To hell with it, neither did Wolverine. These bastards had taken the kids from their beds in the mansion in the middle of the night, had taken Xavier and Cyclops from Magneto's cell. Growing evidence suggested these bastards - or bastards just like them -- had taken Wolverine's past away from him as well. And if what Magneto had told them was true - which, granted, was not a given, considering the source - Stryker was planning to use the professor and Cerebro to impart some permanent damage onto the world's mutant population. So maybe Mystique had a point.  
  
He hadn't heard any alarms, so Wolverine figured Mystique hadn't been discovered yet. If things were going according to the plans they had made in the Blackbird - again, not a given - then Jean and the others were already inside the dam as well. So far, so good.  
  
What irked Wolverine at the moment was that he had seen no sign of Stryker, and his captors didn't seem to be taking him to see him. Wolverine's hands were manacled in an ingenious device that hobbled his fists directly under his jaw. If he extended his adamantium claws, they'd sink into his chin and out through his brain. He could probably still get out of the contraption if he put his mind to it, but for the moment it was wiser just to see where this was going. Hopefully somewhere close to wherever Stryker was, so he could ask the son of a bitch a few pointed questions about the holes in his Swiss-cheese memory before gutting him. The idea made him smile.  
  
The solider flanking him glanced over at Wolverine and noticed his smile. His brows raised slightly. Wolverine met his stare with one of his own. To Wolverine's annoyance, the man looked smug, as if he knew something Wolverine didn't.  
  
Maybe he did. When the soldier turned away at last, Wolverine caught a faint whiff of something coming from him. A clean scent of mint and soap and bergamot, a scent instantly familiar to Wolverine. Cyclops. The bastard smelled like Cyclops. His clothes reeked of him.  
  
Wolverine's nose twitched. He should be glad - this pretty much proved the professor and Cyclops were around here somewhere - but instead he was unsettled. Something about the man's smirk made Wolverine wonder if the kid were still alive. Not that there was any love lost between him and Cyclops, but Jean loved the kid dearly, and it was important to keep Jean happy. Wolverine could feel his claws tickle his knuckles from beneath his skin.  
  
They were moving down a long, empty corridor. The awkward little group came to a stop in front of a heavy metal door with a tiny barred window. One of the soldiers drew back the heavy bolt over the door. Wolverine's nose twitched again. Even without looking through the window, he knew the room was occupied. Cyclops.  
  
The door swung open into a small cell. Wolverine let himself be pushed inside. The kid was sprawled across a bunk against the wall, his face turned away from the door. He wasn't moving, even at the considerable noise the group was making, but Wolverine could tell he was breathing. He was a little surprised at the relief he felt.  
  
Having established that Cyclops was alive, Wolverine didn't spare him another glance. Instead, he stood patiently and looked at his captors. He raised an expectant eyebrow.   
  
A little to his surprise, the soldier who had opened the door stepped forward and began unlocking his elaborate manacles. "You can wait here for Colonel Stryker," he said.  
  
It irked Wolverine that the soldiers were regarding him so lightly. With his hands free, he could attack now. He'd win, too. However, there was the problem of Cyclops, who seemed to be down for the count. Besides, he really did want to talk to Stryker. Anyway, the metal door and concrete walls of the cell wouldn't be an obstacle to his claws, if the soldiers were stupid enough to leave him here without the manacles.  
  
Apparently they were. The soldiers gradually moved back, keeping a close watch on him to make sure he didn't try any funny business, then clanged the metal door shut. Wolverine heard the scrape of the bolt moved into place.  
  
Alone except for his unconscious teammate, Wolverine looked around the cell. He assumed it was bugged, and probably equipped with surveillance cameras, though a cursory inspection turned up neither. No sense hunting for them; if he disabled them, they'd be replaced, and besides, he wasn't doing anything worth monitoring anyway.  
  
He examined the metal door, ran a hand down its surface. And stopped. Something about the feel of the metal. Not steel, like he had supposed. He popped out a single claw and scraped it along the door. It didn't scratch the surface. The door, like his claws, like his reinforced skeleton, was adamantium. That was interesting.  
  
The walls were concrete, though. Wolverine sank his claw into a patch of wall near the door, just to confirm.   
  
His claw sank through the concrete like it was clay. And abruptly stopped about four inches into the wall. The cell walls were reinforced with adamantium.  
  
Maybe the soldiers weren't such nitwits after all.  
  
Hell, he really didn't have any immediate plans for escape anyway. Presumably Stryker would come to see him in his own sweet time. Meanwhile, Jean and the others were probably somewhere around, looking for the kids and Xavier. Wolverine wasn't wearing his X-Men uniform because he didn't need Stryker knowing he'd hooked up with Storm and Jean after fleeing the mansion during the attack. It was better to let him think he'd come up here on his own looking for answers about his past, instead of charging to the rescue with the remaining X-Men.  
  
His examination of the cell complete, Wolverine at last turned his attention to Cyclops, who was still either unconscious or deeply asleep. Wolverine would lay money on the former. Even under less constrained circumstances, the kid was too uptight for undisturbed sleep.  
  
He noticed for the first time that Cyclops didn't have his visor. Gee, that couldn't be good. He knew the kid was pretty good at keeping his eyes shut without his protective eyewear to avoid destroying anything in his line of sight, but he didn't know why Stryker would take away the visor without restraining those highly dangerous eyes.  
  
Maybe he had. Wolverine noticed the thick metal collar around Cyclops' neck. He sat down on the edge of the bunk and examined it closer. He had no real idea of its purpose, but it probably wasn't innocuous. Maybe it controlled Cyclops' blasts. Wolverine touched it gingerly, noting the mess of dried blood around it at the back of Cyclops' neck. The damn thing was embedded into him.  
  
There was something else on Cyclops' neck. A circular scar, like the one Nightcrawler had, that he said was caused by the acid Stryker used to put him under his control. Magneto had a similar scar. Great. All he needed was to have the kid working for Stryker.  
  
He rolled the kid onto his back. Cyclops made a small, incoherent noise of protest, but showed no signs of coming out of whatever he was under. Wolverine noted the pushed-up shirt sleeve and the angry red needle mark on his inner arm.  
  
He also noticed the state of Cyclops' clothing, the unzipped pants, the unbuttoned shirt. Wolverine's eyes narrowed. Cyclops was too meticulous about his appearance to let himself be in such a state. He had been roughed up; one cheek was marked with purple bruises. Had he been raped as well? The kid was damn pretty - as pretty as Jean, in his way - and there had been something about that soldier's smirk... Wolverine took a deep sniff.  
  
The scent of the soldier was all over the kid, in the way Cyclops' scent had been on him, but Wolverine didn't smell much in the way of blood. Or semen. That was reassuring. He didn't like the kid much, but rape was a hell of a thing to happen to anyone.  
  
Cyclops' hands were manacled with thin steel cuffs in front of him. Wolverine snikked out his claws and snipped through the metal. A flick through each cuff, and the metal fell away in pieces. The kid had something dark beneath the fingernails of both hands. Wolverine picked up one of his hands to examine it closer. Dried blood. He turned over the kid's hand, and looked at the small crescent-shaped scars on his palm. So the kid had been tortured, and had clenched his fists in pain. His wrists, too, had been gouged by some kind of restraints other than the handcuffs. Wolverine found similar wounds on his ankles as well.  
  
What the hell had they done to him? Wolverine leaned his back against the wall behind the bunk and gently rested Cyclops' head in his lap. He pulled open Cyclops' shirt and examined his chest. A few bruises, nothing bad. He pressed carefully against his ribs, checking to make sure none were broken, then rebuttoned his shirt and zipped up his pants. He smiled wryly. Two days of imprisonment, a little torture thrown in the mix, and the kid still smelled good. He smelled a whole lot like Jean; Wolverine could never work out if they shared the same cologne, same soap, same shampoo, same deodorant, or if they spent so much time together that their individual personal scents had blended into one.  
  
With surprise and irritation, Wolverine noticed he had the beginnings of an erection. From thoughts of Jean, or thoughts of the kid? Either or both, he figured; Cyclops annoyed the hell out of him most of the time, but he was awfully nice to look at. And when he was lying like this across Wolverine's lap...  
  
With an annoyed grunt, Wolverine slid Cyclops off of him and rested him back on the bunk. He turned his attention to the collar. Should he risk cutting it off? Most likely, it was used to somehow torture the kid. He decided he'd better not until he learned a little more about its purpose.  
  
Something had subtly changed with Cyclops. He hadn't moved at all, but Wolverine's acute senses tipped him off to an increased heart rate, a quickening of the pulse, signs of growing fear. The kid was awake and aware of his surroundings, and obviously had no idea whose lap he had just been dumped out of.  
  
"Hey, kid, it's me. Wolverine," Wolverine said in a low voice. He gave Cyclops a pat on the shoulder, shook him slightly.  
  
The kid turned his head in Wolverine's direction, but didn't open his eyes. "Wolverine?" he asked. His voice was a little slurred.  
  
"Yeah. Don't open your eyes. You don't have your visor."  
  
The kid seemed to smile at this for some reason, a grim twist to his lips. "It's okay." With some effort, Cyclops pulled himself up into a seated position. Wolverine reached out help him, then stopped as he saw the twitch of long lashes. Cyclops was opening his eyes. Fantastic. Wolverine was about to get his head and torso blasted into oblivion.  
  
Nothing happened. Instead of facing a deadly blast of red, Wolverine was staring into a pair of wide-set, perfectly lovely blue eyes. Hell, with those eyes, he might even be prettier than Jean. Cyclops smiled ruefully.  
  
"It's the collar," he said, gesturing toward it. "It short-circuits my blasts."  
  
As if uncomfortable with his proximity to Wolverine, Cyclops shifted over a couple inches and leaned his back against the wall. He moved as though it hurt him.  
  
"Wouldn't take much to get that collar off you," Wolverine said. He slid out a claw for emphasis.  
  
"Better not. It's wired into me somehow. I don't know how to get it off without messing with my nervous system more than it already has. Anyway, without my visor, I'd have to keep my eyes shut." He looked over at Wolverine. "You the cavalry?"  
  
Wolverine shrugged. "Not really." He didn't elaborate. Cyclops shot him a look of mild annoyance until he continued. "I'm here on separate business. Looking up an old friend."  
  
Cyclops threw him a skeptical glance. "Any friend of yours in this place, I don't want to meet."  
  
"You probably already have. Goes by the name of Stryker."  
  
Cyclops snorted. "Yeah. Met that one. Wish I hadn't." He looked directly at Wolverine. Wolverine felt an odd thrill at those pretty eyes. It was almost a relief when Cyclops looked back down at the bunk. "Old friend, you say?"  
  
Wolverine shrugged. "Not sure. Following something from my past. Just so happens you're here. The prof around here anywhere?"  
  
"I don't know for sure. I haven't seen him since we were grabbed at Magneto's cell."  
  
"You haven't seen anything of the kids, either?"  
  
The reaction to this was immediate. Cyclops whipped his head around to stare at Wolverine, then flinched as the motion hurt his neck. "The kids? What kids?"  
  
From Cyclops' expression, it was clear he anticipated the answer. Wolverine took a deep breath.  
  
"The mansion was attacked the night you and the professor went to see Magneto. Special Ops arrived by helicopter, took out the defenses. They took some of the kids."  
  
"You were supposed to be watching them." Cyclops' tone was flat with anger.  
  
"Look, there were about fifty of them, okay? Heavily armed. They were shooting the kids full of tranquilizers. They were inside the mansion before we even knew they were out there." He stopped. He was about to mention that Magneto had told Stryker all about the defenses of the mansion, then realized he'd better not. If anyone was monitoring their conversation, they didn't need to know he had met up with Magneto. "I took out as many as I could. The big kid, the metal guy, whatshisname, got most of the kids out safely, but Stryker's goons got a few before I could stop them." He glared at Cyclops. "All of the kids were out of the mansion one way or another by the time we cleared out."  
  
"Who's 'we'?" Cyclops asked. The anger was still there, but it had been mostly replaced with sharp concern.  
  
"Me, Iceman, Rogue, and the firebug. Pyro. We hid out at Bobby's house." He looked at Cyclops, hoping the kid was sharp enough to read between the lines. There was no sense spelling it out for any eavesdroppers that they had met up with Storm and Jean in Boston. Cyclops knew Bobby lived in Boston; he could put it together.  
  
Cyclops looked at him for a minute. Wolverine had never seen him this disturbed. Or maybe it was just the eyes; when he had his visor on, it was harder to tell what he was feeling. "You drove all the way to Bobby's house?"  
  
Good, he got it. "Yeah. Left the kids there and came here looking for Stryker."  
  
Cyclops glanced down at the jacket Wolverine was wearing. He would know that it came from the Blackbird. Hell, come to think of it, the jacket must be one of his own. Wolverine noticed a slight easing of tension as Cyclops realized the rest of the X-Men were somewhere in the area. "So we are at Alkali Lake, then?"  
  
"Yeah. Beneath the dam, which is why I missed it before. Too bad. Could've saved me a lot of running around."  
  
Cyclops closed his eyes and drew his knees up to his chest. He had purple shadows beneath his eyes. Matched the bruises. Without his visor, he looked preposterously young and vulnerable. Wolverine looked at the angry red gouges on his wrists.  
  
"They torture you for information, or just for fun?" he asked.  
  
Cyclops opened his eyes. If he was surprised at Wolverine's guess that he had been tortured, he didn't show it. "Neither, really." His hand touched the circular scar on the back of his neck. "Stryker's got this serum or acid or something that brainwashes mutants. I think he used it on the mutant who attacked the President."  
  
Old news, but Wolverine couldn't risk telling him about Nightcrawler. He nodded impatiently for him to continue.  
  
"Anyway, he tried it on me a couple of times, and it didn't take. So he tried to soften me up or something to lower my defenses."  
  
Wolverine paused, then decided to ask. It was what normal people would do, show concern for a teammate. "Was it bad?"  
  
"No." The terse reply didn't invite discussion. Hell, he'd tried.  
  
"The collar?" Tried to sound clinical, detached.  
  
It was a better approach than sympathy. Cyclops relaxed somewhat. "Yeah. It sends shocks into my nervous system, I think. I don't really know how it works. Don't really care. It's the type of thing Jean would understand better than I do." Wolverine felt a little mild guilt at the mention of Jean. Last night, while he'd been cheerfully putting the moves on the kid's fiancee, Cyclops had been getting tortured for kicks.   
  
Cyclops shifted. Wolverine realized he'd been staring at him. "What?"  
  
Wolverine grunted. "Not used to seeing your eyes."  
  
Cyclops gave him a half-smile. "I haven't seen them since I was fourteen. I've been kind of wishing for a mirror."  
  
"They're nice. She'll like them."  
  
Cyclops looked at him for a long moment and didn't say anything. It was strange, being able to see those eyes and to actually get a sense of what the kid was thinking. Right now, he looked exhausted and frustrated and worried. There was also maybe a little relief that Wolverine was with him.  
  
Or maybe he was reading too much into it. Cyclops sounded like his usual self - stiff, prickly, and a tad self-righteous - when he finally spoke. "Right. Well. How about getting us out of this cell?"  
  
"Not that easy. It's lined with adamantium."  
  
"Are you serious?" Cyclops asked.  
  
Wolverine exhaled loudly. "No, kid, I'm picking a wildly inopportune time to joke with you. Yeah. It's adamantium."  
  
"Try cutting through. Maybe the whole cell isn't lined."  
  
"And maybe it is. You want me to scrape off all the concrete just to check?"  
  
"If it gets us out of here, yes." Cyclops glared at him.  
  
So much for their brief moment of bonhomie. "I don't know why I was in any hurry for you to wake up."  
  
Cyclops shrugged. "Well, I'm up," he said. And I'm in charge. It was left unsaid, but it hung in the air between them.  
  
"Smarter to wait it out. Stryker's going to want to talk to me. He'll come soon enough."  
  
"That's nice for you. Unfortunately, Stryker has no interest in talking to me," Cyclops said. His voice was tight.  
  
Wolverine looked over at him. The kid was angry and scared and not doing a good job of hiding it. Wolverine felt a sudden, stupid impulse to reassure him that he would protect him, that nothing would happen to him. Stupid because Cyclops wouldn't appreciate the sentiment, and stupid because he couldn't guarantee he could keep the kid safe.  
  
His superhuman hearing picked up the noise in the hallway before Cyclops. They both turned their heads to look at the door as the bolt was drawn back. They got to their feet. Cyclops' movements were a little unsteady, as if the effects of the drug hadn't worn off yet. He was probably sore from the torture, too. Not in peak condition if fighting was called for.  
  
Wolverine moved in front of Cyclops. He stood with his legs shoulder width apart, shoulders back, knees slightly bent. His arms were loose at his sides. Claws weren't out yet, but it only took a fraction of a second to pop them out.  
  
The door opened. A soldier entered first, assault weapon out. He was clad in body armor and a protective helmet with an acrylic faceplate. This was new. Unless the armor was adamantium, however, it wouldn't do the wearer much good.  
  
The soldier looked from Cyclops to Wolverine. He motioned with the rifle at Wolverine. "You. Over there," he said. His voice was muffled by the faceplate.  
  
Wolverine stayed put. Two more soldiers entered the cell, one armored like the first. The other, the guy who had smelled like Cyclops, wore only his fatigues. Behind them, last of all, entered Stryker. Unarmed, unprotected. He held something small in his hand, a metal rectangle. Wolverine couldn't tell what it was.  
  
Stryker held up the object. His thumb moved across the surface, passing across a small dial.  
  
Without a word or sound, Cyclops dropped to his knees. Wolverine turned to see him grope for the bunk to steady himself. The other hand clawed uselessly at the collar. He lowered his head and turned in the direction of the bunk, away from Wolverine, as if he didn't want him to see the extent of the pain he was in.  
  
Wolverine's claws slid out from his knuckles. Teeth bared, he turned to Stryker.  
  
Stryker held up the box and waggled it in the air. His thumb was still on the dial. "Now, Wolverine," he said. "It would be a shame to destroy such a powerful mutant as Cyclops, but now that you're here, he becomes somewhat more expendable."   
  
Wolverine remained still. He retracted his claws. Stryker jerked his head toward the far wall. "Why don't you be a good little animal and go stand over there?"  
  
Seeing no real alternative, Wolverine obeyed. He faced the wall, hands raised slightly to show his harmless intent. One of the armored guards held a gun against the back of his head while the other one stepped forward. Out of the corner of his vision, Wolverine saw he was carrying the intricate set of manacles that had restrained him before. He didn't protest as the cuffs were snapped around his arms, his knuckles once more planted under his chin.  
  
Only when he was satisfied as to Wolverine's relative helplessness did Stryker remove his thumb from the dial. He slipped the metal box into his jacket pocket. Wolverine turned back away from the wall, the guards watching his every move, and looked down at Cyclops.  
  
Cyclops gripped onto the edge of the bunk with both hands and tried to stand. The dark-haired soldier crouched down beside him and hauled him to his feet with an arm around his waist. Cyclops tried to pull away. The man calmly raised his pistol and placed the muzzle under Cyclops' jaw. The man held him tightly by the waist and whispered something in his ear. Wolverine's exceptional hearing picked up on the hissed words: "Miss me, baby?" He saw Cyclops jerk his head away involuntarily. The hair on the back of Wolverine's neck started to prickle.  
  
Wolverine turned to Stryker. "I want to talk to you."  
  
"And we will talk, Wolverine. I'm looking forward to getting caught up. But first, I think a little demonstration is called for." Stryker had a little case with him, Wolverine saw. He crossed the cell and placed it on the bunk. He popped the latches and withdrew a large plastic syringe. It was filled with yellow liquid. He held it up in the air.  
  
"This, if you were wondering, is a marvelous little discovery of mine, an essential extraction of a powerful mutant ability of mind control, distilled into a more convenient form." He glanced over at Cyclops, his brows furrowing. "With the exception of young Mr. Summers here, the effects have been remarkable."  
  
The man holding Cyclops was grinning, his eyes oddly bright. Cyclops was staring at Stryker with undisguised loathing.  
  
"While I can't say I'm not disappointed it hasn't worked on Cyclops, we won't have the same difficulty with you." Stryker smiled at Wolverine. "I think it's time we provide your fearless leader with a demonstration of just how effective this serum can be."  
  
Wolverine eyed the syringe, then snorted. "What - you're going to shoot me up with your zombie juice, then let me and Cyclops battle it out?" He sounded more nonchalant than he felt. If that was Stryker's plan, and if the stuff worked on him, he'd cut Cyclops to ribbons.  
  
"Not exactly. I'd like to keep the boy alive, if possible. But I do think he needs an object lesson." Stryker's smile widened. "You're going to rape him."  
  
It took a moment to register. "What?"  
  
"I'm sure you heard me," Stryker said.  
  
In the soldier's grasp, Cyclops was perfectly still. His eyes were perhaps a little wider than they should be, but that was about it. Wolverine couldn't look at him. Far easier to look at Stryker. "You're a real son of bitch."  
  
"And you're a mutant. So is he." Said as if it were the last word in the argument.  
  
Wolverine bared his teeth. The soldier nearest him turned him around and shoved him against the wall. With his arms restrained, Wolverine's forehead hit the concrete with a thunk that finally shook away the shock of Stryker's words. He welcomed the sudden rush of fury. He snarled and growled like the animal Stryker accused him of being. He backed up against the arms that were pushing him forward. The other armored guard joined his companion and shoved him back into place, holding him fast.  
  
Stryker was behind him now. Wolverine felt a hand push his head forward. His forehead ground against the wall. Then came a quick burning pain on the back of his neck. He could feel his flesh trying to heal itself even as it burned. Maybe his mutant healing factor would negate the effects of the acid on his system.  
  
The sides of his world began to cave in. He was falling down a long, endless tunnel, though his head still seemed to be pressed firmly against the cold cement. It was his conscious self instead, some very vital part of his humanity that was falling, fading away, disappearing.  
  
And was gone. 


	5. Chapter 5

Title: CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE  
  
Author: Marvelous  
  
Chapter Summary: Things fall apart. Scott's day gets worse.  
  
Rating: R for adult situations, rape, language.  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Jean Grey stared at the banks of monitors inside the security checkpoint room. Beside her stood Nightcrawler and Storm. Storm was dividing her attention between watching the monitors and keeping an eye on Magneto, who stood at her shoulder, elegant and aloof. Mystique sat in the room's sole chair. Her blue hands moved with surprising speed and grace across the keyboard. The pictures on the monitors shifted continuously. Jean could barely keep up with the images flashing across the screens as Mystique systematically checked the views from all the security cameras in the compound.  
  
Thus far, things were going smoothly on their end. Mystique, in the guise of a soldier, had smuggled them all inside the dam. Jean was using her telepathic shields as best she could to keep their presence disguised. It was a strain, and it meant she couldn't try to use her mental links with the professor or Scott to find their location.   
  
She wished their plan didn't rely so heavily upon the cooperation of Magneto and Mystique, both of whom would cheerfully betray the X-Men in a flash if the right opportunity arose. Impossible to do this without Mystique, however, who in addition to her formidable powers of shape-shifting was also turning out to be something near brilliant. Who knew?  
  
At the sight of something on the monitors, Storm touched Jean's shoulder. "There. It's the children. Mystique, can you get their location?"  
  
Mystique barely glanced at the scene that had captured Storm's attention. A cluster of kids, the missing students from the Institute, trapped in a small, dark cell. The camera had no accompanying sound, but they appeared to be in decent shape. "Sub-basement two, west sector," Mystique said.  
  
Storm looked at Jean and Nightcrawler. They had no schematics of the building, so the information wasn't as helpful as it sounded. "Kurt and I will go after them, okay, Jean?" The question was asked out of politeness, not a request for permission. With Cyclops and the professor gone, Storm herself was probably the logical choice to lead the group.  
  
Jean gave her a quick smile. Storm was making it very clear that Magneto was not in charge of any X-Men, no matter what they owed him after he saved their lives by preventing the Blackbird from crashing. "Go. We'll keep looking for Scott and the professor. Hopefully that's what Logan's doing as well. Get the kids, okay?"  
  
"Okay." Storm shot a dubious look at Magneto and Mystique, not comfortable at leaving Jean alone with them, but left without protest, trailed closely by Nightcrawler.  
  
During the exchange of conversation, neither had noticed as Mystique's attention was momentarily drawn by something on one of the monitors. Beside her, Magneto raised an elegant brow. They exchanged a quick glance. With a fluid movement, Mystique typed something on the keyboard. The scene on the monitor in question shifted to a view from a different camera, an exterior shot of the snowbanks outside the dam.  
  
Jean turned around. Her telepathy warned her that something had passed between Magneto and Mystique. She looked at the monitors and saw nothing suspicious. Magneto and Mystique were both watching the screens, faint traces of smiles on their faces.   
  
Jean frowned.  
  
As soon as Wolverine lifted his head, Scott knew he was in serious trouble. There was something about his teammate's movements, the unnatural set of his shoulders, that broadcast a clear signal that Wolverine was no longer himself. The armored soldiers kept their grip on him; apart from raising his head away from the wall, Wolverine remained still.  
  
Stryker stared at Wolverine, his head tilted to the side. After the difficulties with Scott, he was taking no chances. He observed Wolverine for a long silent moment before gesturing for the soldiers to step back. They unlocked the manacles and released their holds on his arms, but kept their weapons at the ready.  
  
"Turn around," Stryker said. Wolverine turned around.  
  
Scott felt his stomach constrict at the sight of Wolverine's eyes. The usual brown was washed over with an unnatural silver sheen. His face was blank.  
  
A smile spread across Stryker's face. "That's very good, Wolverine," he said. "Very good indeed."  
  
Scott stood perfectly still. The soldier, Jordan, still held him by an arm around his waist. Jordan could probably detect the increase in his heart rate.  
  
Stryker addressed the two armored guards. "You may go now," he said. They saluted and left. They closed the metal door behind them, but left it unbolted.  
  
"And now..." Stryker turned to Scott. He motioned for Jordan to release his arms. Jordan obeyed, giving Scott a little shove forward. "Wolverine, I want you to fuck this mutant."  
  
Coming from Stryker, the words were a horrible obscenity, laced with a lifetime of hatred and malice. All at once, Scott understood the depths of this man's loathing for Xavier, for the Institute, for Scott himself by association. Scott's abilities made him a useful tool for Stryker, but Stryker was going to make sure he suffered first.  
  
And the suffering would be considerable. Wolverine was shorter than Scott, but considerably broader and more muscular. His healing factor made it impossible to put him out of commission through conventional means. Scott's blasts were gone, and he was already weak and injured. Even if Wolverine kept the claws sheathed, this was a fight Scott would lose.  
  
Wolverine walked toward him. His face was still blank. There was none of the ferocity he always displayed in battle, the snarls and growls, the fury. He reached out to grab Scott's arm. As if there were no possibility Scott would resist.  
  
It might not be a well-matched fight, but Scott had every intention of resisting. His only plan was to get to the door and out of this cell. His odds improved slightly out in the corridor. He dropped low to the ground, ducked past Wolverine, and made a break for the door.  
  
Wolverine sprang. He was alarmingly agile considering his musculature. He caught Scott around the waist and brought them both to the floor.  
  
Scott ignored the surge of pure panic and tried to slither forward out of Wolverine's grasp. Wolverine wrapped one arm around Scott's chest, trapping his arms and holding him fast. He held the other hand up near Scott's throat. The claws popped out. Scott stared at the razor-sharp blades an inch from his nose.  
  
"No claws, Wolverine," Stryker called out. "We don't want to kill him."  
  
The claws retracted. The hand moved to the back of Scott's neck and forced his head down. Scott managed to work one arm free from Wolverine's grasp. He tried to crawl forward, anything to get out of the grasp, and found himself anchored in place.  
  
The arm around his ribs dropped to the front of his pants. "Logan," Scott said, as calmly as he could manage. "Logan, don't do this." It was the first time he could remember ever using Wolverine's given name.   
  
By way of reply, Wolverine yanked down Scott's pants, taking his briefs down as well. Scott felt one of Wolverine's massive thighs pressing between his knees, forcing his legs apart.  
  
Scott wondered if Logan, even in his brainwashed state, would be able to pull this off. Wolverine liked women. Specifically, he liked Jean. He couldn't stand Scott. It would be a hitch in Stryker's plan if Wolverine couldn't get it up for Scott. One couldn't just command an erection.  
  
That fleeting hope was dashed in the next instant. Wolverine's jeans-clad form was pressed tightly against him. Even through the thick denim, Scott felt an unmistakable bulge against him. Crap. Wolverine bent over Scott, one arm bracing himself on the floor, the other releasing his grip on Scott to unbuckle his own pants. When Scott tried to move away, the hand pressed against the small of his back and pushed him down.  
  
There was no preparation of any kind. Scott's mind nearly exploded with the brutality of Logan's first thrust. Not Logan, though. Not really him. It was easy enough to believe that; apart from an occasional grunt of exertion into Scott's ear, Wolverine was a blank. He drove into Scott ruthlessly, but without either anger or erotic heat. Scott was being raped by a machine.  
  
Scott shut his eyes tightly. The less aware he was of Stryker and Jordan watching his humiliation, the better. The pain was bad, very bad, but he'd had worse. The collar was worse, come to think of it. He was torn and damaged, but he was alive. And would stay alive, would get through this, unless Stryker had anything more creative planned for him.  
  
With a final grunt, Wolverine finished. His order carried out, he pulled out and shoved Scott away from him, then re-buckled his pants. Scott inhaled deeply. His chest constricted; he focused on taking one deep breath, then another, until he was under control. Determined not to think too carefully about what just happened, Scott pulled up his pants. His meticulous nature made him wish he could clean away the blood and fluids on his thighs first, but reclaiming his shattered dignity was of paramount importance.  
  
Stryker looked at Wolverine, who rose to his feet, clothes rearranged, face blank, looking for all the world as if he had not just participated in the savage attack on Scott. "Excellent, Wolverine. Stay right there for a moment." Stryker glanced down at Scott, then turned to Jordan.  
  
"The boy's a little ripped up, but I believe he's good for another round, if you're feeling up to it."  
  
Jordan smiled. Scott got unsteadily to his feet. "Just try it," he said. His voice wasn't as calm as he would have liked.  
  
"That's the plan, baby," Jordan said. He passed his pistol over to Stryker. "If you'd care to keep that for me, sir, I won't be needing it."  
  
Scott took advantage of his slight inattention and charged him. Jordan moved back to deflect the brunt of the attack and caught Scott by the shoulders. He surged forward and pinned him against the wall. Scott's arms were crushed against his chest. "Getting frisky, huh, bitch?" Jordan asked. Scott tried to push him off and found himself held in place.  
  
"Get the hell off of me, you bastard," he said.  
  
Jordan snaked one hand in the back of Scott's hair, yanked his head back, and smashed his mouth down on Scott's. Scott bit down, trying to take as much of a chunk out of Jordan's lips as possible. Jordan pressed him harder into the wall and pulled back from the kiss.  
  
"Glad you like it rough, baby," he said. He yanked Scott away from the wall and shoved him toward the bunk. He pushed him down on his back and climbed atop him, ignoring Scott's attempts to push him off. He straddled Scott, his knees pinning his arms to his sides. He began unbuttoning Scott's shirt.  
  
"We're going to do this right," he said. He yanked the shirt down around Scott's shoulders, then shifted his knees further apart. Scott suddenly found his arms free. He rose up to push Jordan away. Jordan held him in place with a hand against his bare chest and pulled the shirt entirely off.  
  
He glanced back at Stryker. "I think I'm going to need Wolverine for this," he said. He unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt.  
  
At the sight of the handcuffs, Scott went wild. He reared up and succeeded in partially dislodging Jordan from his position on top of him. Jordan grunted and hit him. Scott fell back, dazed.  
  
And then Wolverine was at the side of the bunk, pulling Scott's arms above him in obedience to Jordan's instructions. A metal cuff snapped around one wrist. The cuffs were passed beneath the metal bolt holding the bunk to the wall, then the other cuff was fastened around Scott's other wrist. He was trapped.  
  
With Scott now in place, Wolverine impassively stepped back. Jordan knelt over Scott once more. He unfastened Scott's pants and pulled them completely off. The briefs followed. Scott found himself exposed beneath the other man.  
  
Unlike Wolverine, Jordan had no intention of being emotionless and robotic about this. He ran his hands over Scott's chest, his hips. "Nice. Very nice. You're a very pretty baby, Scott."  
  
Scott didn't answer. He glared up at him, refusing to look away. Jordan laughed. He knelt between Scott's legs and spread them apart. "A little broken in, but I bet you're still tight," he said. He placed a hand under Scott's knee, lifted it up and to the side, until Scott was spread wide open. With the other hand, he unfastened his own trousers.  
  
It wasn't much worse than what Wolverine had done. Even so, Scott couldn't help making a small noise in his throat at the first painful thrust. He turned his face to the wall and tried to concentrate on anything other than what was happening to him. Jordan kept up a constant string of muttered profane endearments, until a gasp from him indicated it was over. Jordan collapsed on top of him, then pulled out. He stretched out his body on top of Scott's, pressing his face close to his. "Tight as hell. I was right," he said.  
  
He reached a hand back and scooped up some of the fluids spilling out of Scott, then wiped the mess across Scott's cheek. "Mine, baby," he said. He turned Scott's head to face him and kissed him, hard and brutal.  
  
Scott was beyond protest at this point. He lay on the bunk, enduring the kiss. He desperately needed a moment to recover his poise, his sanity. Jordan patted him on the cheek and climbed off of him, then yanked up his pants.  
  
Stryker walked over, crouched beside Scott. "How are we holding up?" he asked cheerily. His eyes glittered. "You know, Scott, I only wish I'd thought to have Xavier here to watch this. To see his darling boy getting mauled by the Wolverine." He glanced over at Wolverine. "Speak of the devil, I do believe he's ready for another round."  
  
Scott closed his eyes. He didn't watch as Wolverine approached, didn't flinch at the feel of big hands on his shoulder and hip. In the midst of his agony, he felt a pang of compassion for Wolverine. When the effects of the serum wore off - if they wore off - Wolverine would be furious at what Stryker had forced him to do.   
  
Wolverine flipped Scott onto his stomach. The handcuffs twisted and tightened around already strained wrists. Wolverine climbed onto the bunk behind Scott, jerked him up to his knees. Scott felt a now-familiar hardness pressed up against him, and waited for the inevitable.   
  
Wait. Something was different. Wolverine was bent over him again, his hands clutching Scott's shoulders. His face was very close to Scott's ear. Scott flinched as Wolverine sniffed him. Sniffed his neck, his hair.  
  
This was new. This was weird and creepy, but it was a departure from the mechanical quality of the first rape. Wolverine sniffed Scott's hair again. A low growl came from him.   
  
One of the hands lifted to Scott's hair and began to comb through it. Stroking him. The right hand tightened on his shoulder. The right claws popped out. Scott couldn't help yelping as the foot-long blades extended inches from his chin.  
  
"Wolverine!" Stryker's voice held a distinct note of alarm and displeasure. "No claws."  
  
Wolverine didn't obey. He growled again, right in Scott's ear. Scott shut his eyes tightly. He was about to get impaled.  
  
"Wolverine, put your claws back in. That is an order!" Stryker was coming closer now, Scott could tell by his voice. "Wolverine!"  
  
Wolverine bellowed then, a primal exclamation of pure fury. Scott felt the hand on his shoulder move, heard the sickening sound of metal slicing flesh.  
  
Not his flesh. Scott opened his eyes and twisted his head to the side. Stryker was standing a foot or so away from the bunk. Both of his hands were clutching at his throat. Two of Wolverine's claws entered the front of his neck and exited out the other side.  
  
Wolverine retracted his claws with another yell. Stryker's body remained upright for a moment, wobbling in the air, then pitched forward to the ground.  
  
Jordan didn't hesitate. Before Stryker's body had even hit the floor, he snatched up his gun and opened fire on Wolverine. Three shots hit Wolverine's unprotected chest.  
  
It barely slowed him down. With a howl of fury, Wolverine leapt at Jordan and brought him to the ground. Trapped on the bunk as he was, the attack was out of Scott's range of vision, but the wet tearing noise and the ragged gasp of agony that followed left no doubt what had happened.  
  
Wolverine rose to his feet. Both sets of claws were covered with blood. Scott watched as Wolverine approached him. He struggled to sit up, as much as he could manage with his hands cuffed to the bunk.  
  
With shock, Scott noticed that Wolverine hadn't shrugged off the effects of the serum after all. His eyes were still covered with a silver sheen. His face was no longer blank, but he was clearly not himself. He looked at Scott without recognition, his lips drawn back in a snarl.  
  
"Logan-" Scott said. Wolverine growled at him. Scott kept silent. Wolverine raised one set of claws. Scott shrank back against the wall.  
  
Wolverine's wrist flicked down. Twice. The handcuffs fell off of Scott's wrists.  
  
Scott stared up at Wolverine. The bullet holes in Wolverine's chest were closing up, the gush of blood slowing to a dribble, then stopping altogether. Wolverine shut his eyes and wobbled slightly on his feet. Apparently his body's unique method of repairing itself took a good deal out of him.  
  
Scott slid off the bunk, keeping a wary watch on Wolverine. He crossed the cell gingerly, ignoring his various pains, and retrieved his clothes. His hands shook so badly he had trouble buttoning his shirt. He dressed as fast as he could, his attention divided between the cell door and Wolverine. The gunshots would bring more soldiers. He bent down to pick up Jordan's gun. His hands trembled still more as he tried to pry the weapon out of Jordan's stiffening grip. His mind, overloaded with recent traumas, refused to process the sight of the horrible, ripped-apart corpse of his rapist. He concentrated on getting the gun, nothing more.  
  
A large hand closed around his wrist and jerked him upright before he could accomplish his task. Wolverine, fully recovered from his wounds, dragged him toward the door without looking at him. He tightened his grip on Scott's wrist, then kicked at the door.  
  
It flew open. At almost the same moment, an alarm went off in the corridor. Scott followed Logan out of one hell and into another. 


	6. Chapter 6

Title: CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE  
  
Author: Marvelous  
  
Chapter Summary: All hell breaks loose. Gleefully nasty cameo appearance by Magneto & Mystique.  
  
Chapter Six  
  
The hallway outside the door was chaos. A red light flashed in counterpoint to the screech of the alarm. Scott felt instantly disoriented. A slew of armed guards surrounded both ends of the corridor. He couldn't count how many. All of them had guns pointed at him and Wolverine; one soldier, who was apparently in charge, shouted something at them. Scott could only guess it was an order to freeze, but he could hear nothing over the sound of the siren. Wolverine shoved Scott back, then released him and charged into the nearest group of soldiers.  
  
Madness reigned after that. There was an explosion of gunfire, audible even over the siren. Scott flattened himself against the wall and dropped to a crouch. He was utterly defenseless in the hallway, but he refused to go back into the relative protection of the cell.  
  
He was mostly ignored in the resulting tumult. The soldiers had more than they could handle with Wolverine. Scott had never before seen Wolverine in a full-out berserker rage. Fervently, he hoped he never would again. Wolverine ripped through the soldiers, claws shredding armor and flesh. Scott was thankful to the siren for blocking the shouts of the dying soldiers.  
  
And then Wolverine's hand was locked around his wrist again. He dragged Scott down the now-deserted hallway. Scott couldn't tell what was going on. Wolverine still wasn't himself, yet the serum wasn't having the right effect on him anymore. At least he seemed to have a vested interest in keeping Scott alive.   
  
They were out of the hallway now and in the enormous chamber, the one Scott had passed through on the way to the interrogation chamber. It seemed like a lifetime ago; Scott realized it had just been yesterday.   
  
The chamber was vast, filled with a great deal of abandoned machinery. The alarm was still blaring, but it was quieter here than in the hallway. Scott could hear Wolverine's low growl as he looked around the room. Wolverine dragged Scott to a corner, behind a stack of culvert pipes.  
  
"Logan, what's going on?" Scott asked.  
  
Wolverine snarled in reply. He didn't seem capable of speech in his present state. He shoved Scott against the wall, then threw him to the ground. Before Scott could react, Wolverine grabbed his hair and forced him up on his knees. He crouched down behind him.  
  
"Logan, what--?" Scott's question was cut off by Wolverine's hand clapped across his mouth and a warning growl in his ear. Wolverine's breath quickened. Once again, Scott felt Wolverine's erection pressed against him.  
  
Pain and fear gave way to panic. Scott surged forward. The hand on his mouth dropped to his throat and squeezed. Scott gasped for air. He brought up his hands to try to pull Wolverine away, but the adamantium-enhanced arms didn't budge.   
  
"Please," Scott gasped out. "Logan, stop." He went limp in Wolverine's grasp. Instantly, the hand on his neck relaxed its grip.  
  
Helpless, hurt, and terrorized beyond comprehension, Scott began to shake uncontrollably. Unable to find any way to protest against what was happening to him, he stopped resisting.  
  
Wolverine's position shifted. The hand at Scott's throat moved to his hair. With a gentle, uncertain motion, Wolverine began to stroke Scott's hair. Scott didn't move, though he couldn't stop trembling. Hysteria threatened to overtake him. Was Wolverine trying to comfort him? Scott was being held gently now, but firmly, and he had no doubt the arms would tighten around him if he tried to move away.   
  
Wolverine was smelling his hair now, then the back of his neck, across the collar, then burrowing his face into Scott's back. His hand went to Scott's face, stroked his cheek, his neck. Scott was being petted, reassured, like one would reassure a frightened animal.  
  
Wolverine sniffed him again, deeper. His limbs tensed against Scott; Scott's heart jumped as he felt the change. Wolverine growled again, sniffed once more, and released Scott. He rose to his feet. The claws popped out.  
  
In the next moment, Scott picked up on what Wolverine's heightened senses had alerted him to. More soldiers were entering the room. Abandoning Scott, Wolverine gave a howl of fury and launched himself out from around the culvert pipes.  
  
Once more, chaos erupted. In his present position, Scott was hidden from sight, but he couldn't stay there. He was wounded and defenseless. As much as he hated to abandon Wolverine, even temporarily, he'd be no use in the fight. If Wolverine had to protect him, he'd be a hindrance. And once Wolverine took care of this current batch of attackers, he'd probably attack Scott again. Putting some distance between them was the best option.  
  
First, he had to get out of the room undetected. Luckily, the chamber was so cluttered with equipment that it was an easy thing to slide along the wall, ducking behind objects and crouching low to keep from being spotted. He was limping badly, and he couldn't run, or fight, but he could move, and that was the important thing.  
  
A few feet away from the open door that led into the corridor, Scott paused behind the protection of a stack of wooden pallets. He couldn't see into the hallway; he had no idea if more soldiers were hiding in reserve. He'd have to chance it. Keeping low, Scott slipped out the door and into the darkened hall.  
  
There was someone there, a lone individual crouched in the shadows beside the door. The figure turned around and looked at Scott. Scott caught the flash of black leather, the swirl of shoulder-length auburn hair.  
  
And then he was in Jean's arms, in a tangle of arms, both of them pulling each other into the shadowy alcove beside the door.  
  
"Jean," he whispered, pressing her as tightly to him as he dared. "Jean."  
  
She was holding him tightly too, in a way that hurt all of his strained joints and pulled muscles, but it was a good kind of hurt. He was a little surprised he hadn't sensed her in the hallway through their ever-present mental link, but it was something of a relief that Jean wasn't reading his thoughts. He'd let her know everything soon enough, but first they needed to get out of there.  
  
For the moment, however, it was enough to just hold onto her. Jean had somehow maneuvered him so his back was against the wall. She kissed him now, roughly and with more intensity than usual. Her grip around his waist was starting to cause him real pain; when she bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, Scott pulled back in shock.  
  
"Jean..." he said, then stopped as Jean seemed to ripple in the dim light. Pale skin and black leather shifted into a seamless mass of midnight blue. Scott stared in shock at Mystique. At their last meeting, during the fight at Liberty Island, she had tried to stick her claws into his back while in the guise of Wolverine. It didn't seem like her intentions had significantly changed.  
  
"Not quite, Cyclops," she said. She smirked at him and pushed him back against the wall. "I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about."  
  
She leaned in until her mouth was almost touching his. He twisted his head to the side; her tongue flicked out and licked his cheek. With revulsion, Scott realized she was licking off the blood and semen Jordan had smeared on him. "I like you better this way," she said, her voice low. "Torn and bleeding and filled with Wolverine's come."  
  
He shoved her away, no longer caring about attracting the attention of the soldiers in the adjoining chamber. "Get off of me."  
  
"Now, now." Scott straightened up at the sound of a new visitor to their little party. He couldn't make out the features of the cloaked and helmeted figure approaching them, but he knew the voice. Magneto. "Mystique, my dear, why don't you let go of the poor boy? He's having a terribly rough day."  
  
"What are you doing here?" Scott asked.  
  
Magneto smiled at him, crinkling his eyes, looking every bit like someone's kindly uncle. "Why, rescuing you and Charles, of course."  
  
"Why do I find that hard to believe?" Scott focused his attention on Magneto and tried to ignore Mystique, who was standing mere centimeters away from him.  
  
"My dear Cyclops." Magneto's voice held nothing but exasperated affection. "If we meant you any harm, would we go to such lengths to protect you from this?" Magneto raised a hand in the air. Scott looked at him, not understanding, until he saw a handful of small metal rings float through the open doorway into his hand. Grenade pins.  
  
And then Mystique was on him again, dragging him to the floor, covering him with her naked body. Magneto crouched as well, his elegant crimson cape pulled around him. He held up both hands. There was a tearing of metal, then one of the panels lining the ceiling flew across the room and hovered in midair between them and the doorway to the chamber as a makeshift shield.  
  
Scott heard the surprised shouts of the soldiers an instant before the tremendous series of blasts. Fire lit up the hallway. The ground beneath Scott shook. Mystique, on top of him, grinned and ground herself against him. Her form shifted again. For the briefest instant, Scott found himself pinned beneath his slain rapist, Jordan, before Mystique shifted back into her usual blue self.  
  
"Get the hell off of him." A familiar low growl. Scott saw Wolverine standing in the doorway, claws extended. He was smudged with soot from the blast, and his jacket was scorched and tattered, but he was undamaged. His eyes were their normal shade of brown. He looked himself again. Pissed off and grumpy beyond belief. Like usual.  
  
Mystique raised a cool eyebrow, then rolled off of Scott and rose to her feet. Magneto tossed his improvised shield aside with an elegant flick of his hand. "Ah, Wolverine. It's good to see you back to your usual charming self." He looked down at Scott, who was slowly getting to his feet. "You boys put on quite the show for the security cameras."  
  
Scott froze. He felt a sudden burst of rage, which was replaced with a bone-deep weariness. After all that had happened, it was ridiculous to let Magneto's taunts get to him.  
  
Mystique brushed herself off. "If I'd known the way your interests were running, I would have changed into someone else for you in your tent last night, Wolverine." She shot a quick look over at Scott.  
  
Wolverine was silent, glowering at her. Scott glanced at him. The look Wolverine gave him was equal parts guilt and anger. With a twist in his heart, he thought he had a pretty good idea of who Mystique had changed into for Wolverine. Rotten to think of Jean being used in that way, even if she knew nothing about it.  
  
Magneto smiled. "Seeing that we can count Cyclops among the rescued, Mystique and I are going to look for Charles. Coming?" He arched an elegant brow.  
  
"Not with you," Wolverine said. Scott kept silent.  
  
"There's gratitude for you." Magneto extended a hand to Mystique. "Shall we?"  
  
Mystique linked her arm in Magneto's. With a final smirk at Scott and Logan, she gracefully walked with Magneto down the hallway. They both moved at an unhurried, unruffled pace, as if they were taking a stroll through a park on a balmy evening. Magneto leaned his head toward hers and murmured something inaudible. Mystique giggled.  
  
Wolverine had disappeared. Scott followed him into the chamber and instantly regretted it. The room had been blown apart by the grenades. Worse, the owners of the grenades had been blown apart as well. Scott avoided looking too closely at anything as he walked toward Wolverine.  
  
Logan picked something off the floor. He turned around and extended it toward Scott. A pistol. "Take it," he said. He wasn't looking at Scott. "If I flip out on you again, aim for the head. It'll slow me down the longest."  
  
Scott took it. He tucked it into the waistband of his pants, oddly touched by the gesture. "Tell me there's a good reason why we've teamed up with Magneto," he said, mostly to break the moment.  
  
"Wasn't my idea." Wolverine started walking toward the far end of the corridor, in the opposite direction from where Magneto and Mystique had headed.  
  
"Are Jean and Storm here?" Scott asked. He was amazed at how normal his voice sounded.   
  
Wolverine seemed to be very busy looking anywhere but at him. "Yeah. They must be looking for the kids and Xavier. Don't know how we're going to find them in this place, though."  
  
For the first time, Scott let his mental barriers down and tentatively started searching for some sign of Jean. It worked. Scott felt the glorious light, questioning touch in his head, felt the outpouring of information in response to his quick query about her location and situation. Hard to hold back from breaking down entirely under the quiet assurances of her love, but he lightly assured her he was all right, that Wolverine was with him, and severed the connection as gently as possible. He found Wolverine looking at him, puzzled by his sudden stillness.  
  
"They're not far," he said. "Jean and Storm. They have the professor and the kids with them." He nodded toward the hall. "This way. They're going to meet us by the place you came in."  
  
Wolverine didn't say anything. He looked both skeptical and impressed, as if he hadn't known of the mental bond Scott and Jean shared. Scott felt a fierce stab of petty triumph. Anything that damaged Wolverine's assumption that Jean would someday be his was good news for Scott.  
  
Scott picked his way gingerly across the horror-strewn room, regretting his bare feet. Now that the immediate danger seemed to be past, he was more aware than ever of his damaged physical condition. Moving was a challenge; moving quickly was not a possibility. While stepping to avoid a patch of gore, Scott's knee buckled, and he surged forward.  
  
A firm hand on his waist prevented him from hitting the ground. Wolverine used his free hand to lift Scott's arm and hang it around his shoulders. "Faster this way," he said.  
  
They made their way slowly through the building, exchanging words only when Wolverine wanted confirmation on their route of travel. Scott could feel Jean tickling around the back of his mind now, guiding him toward her, asking the occasional question, but he refrained from broadcasting anything more than love and reassurance to her. The professor was in his mind too, exhausted and sad, but alive and okay. When Scott didn't respond to his tentative queries, the professor slipped out of his head without argument.  
  
Almost there. They met no more soldiers. The compound seemed empty. Jordan had said there were fifty of them; Wolverine had taken out thirty or more by himself, and who knew how many Jean and Storm had neutralized. There was no sign of Yuriko Oyama, and Scott, with an irked memory of how easily she had subdued him, hoped that would continue to be the case. Maybe, free of the serum, she'd revert back to normal like Wolverine, though there was no telling what her normal state was like.  
  
They were close now. Scott thought he could hear noises up ahead. Wolverine twitched his nose, wrinkled his forehead in annoyance.  
  
"Just down the hall," Wolverine said. "Damn kids. Making sixty kinds of rackets."  
  
Scott closed his eyes. All of a sudden, he didn't think he could go any further. It was the thought of facing the kids, facing Jean, facing the professor, that made something in his soul crumble. They'd look to him to be their leader, be their Cyclops, and all he wanted to do was lie down in a corner somewhere and die.  
  
He'd stopped moving. Wolverine glanced over at him, then released his hold on him. "Hey," he said. "Hey."  
  
Scott looked at him. He didn't know what Logan could see in his face, but he thought he saw something very similar reflected in Logan's own eyes. Gently, carefully, Wolverine lifted his hands to Scott's shoulders. He brought Scott against him in a quick, hard embrace. Scott was too stunned to react, so he simply stood, rigid.  
  
Just as quickly, Wolverine released him. There had been a strange transference of strength in the embrace, as though Logan had given him the ability to make it through the million obstacles and irritations, large and petty, that lay between this hell and home. Wolverine crooked a weary half-smile at him.  
  
"Lead us home, Cyclops," was all he said. 


	7. Chapter 7

Title: CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE  
  
Author: Marvelous  
  
Chapter Summary: Scott & Logan sort things out. Jean is the world's best girlfriend.  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
Everything considered, Scott could have done without the visit to the White House. Hard enough to survive the wonderful, terrible reunion with Jean and the others and the baffling introduction to Nightcrawler, to deflect Jean's delicate mental queries, to get out of the dam in one piece and find Bobby and Rogue and the Blackbird, to pretend he didn't notice the professor's grave sidelong glances in his direction. He and Wolverine hadn't exchanged words since reuniting with the others; the only time Wolverine acknowledged his presence had been on the Blackbird. When Scott automatically headed for the pilot's seat, Wolverine shifted in his own seat and said, "He shouldn't be flying. He's injured." Without complaint or explanation, Scott let Jean take his place. No sense squabbling with Logan in front of the kids, and besides, he didn't feel much like flying anyway. He spent most of the flight to Washington in the back of the jet, checking on the condition and spirits of the kids and listening to Bobby and Rogue's jumbled, excited account of their part in recent adventures. Pyro - John - had taken off with Magneto, which surprised Scott more than it probably should.   
  
They couldn't return to the mansion without settling matters with the authorities. Thus, the unscheduled visit to the President. It worked out well enough - after revealing details of Stryker's unauthorized exploits, they received conditional immunity on the spot - though it laid bare more of their activities than Scott was comfortable with. There would be numerous future inquiries and investigations; no telling if the X-Men would really come out ahead when all the dust settled.  
  
By the time the Blackbird landed at the mansion, Scott was exhausted in body and spirit. The first order of business -- finding the rest of kids -- proved to be the easiest. At the sight of the jet landing, they emerged out of the woods surrounding the mansion and waved their arms wildly as the Blackbird touched down. They looked tired and bedraggled and relieved beyond belief. As their teacher, Scott knew he should be concerned about their lack of caution, but it was no time for a lecture.  
  
The days ahead were going to be rough - there were frantic parents to reassure, local authorities to placate, a school to repair, Cerebro to rebuild from scratch - but the only task tonight was to get everyone fed and comforted and put to bed in whatever areas of the mansion had sustained the least damage.  
  
It was in the middle of this process that Scott finally gave up. Jean found him sitting on the back stairs to the kitchen, head drooped forward, eyes closed. She slipped onto the step beside him and placed an arm on his shoulders. He leaned into her, resting his head in the crook of her neck. They remained that way for a long time until Jean moved her hand to the collar around his neck.  
  
"Let's get that off of you," she said.  
  
Scott nodded. He had long forgotten about the constant pain from the prongs in his neck. The kids had made a great fuss about his eyes, which was oddly sweet, but he missed his blasts. More specifically, he was tired of feeling useless and helpless. He rose to his feet. Jean didn't comment on the way he grabbed the stair railing to help him stand, or how slowly he moved down the hall to the elevator leading to the medical lab.  
  
Neither of them spoke until they were in the lab, alone together for the first time, secure in the depths of the mansion. The lab had been untouched by Stryker's forces. A rare lucky break. Jean directed Scott to sit on the examination table, then took a close look at the collar. Her cool hand pressed against it lightly. "I'm sorry if this hurts," she said.  
  
"It's okay," he said. "I'd rather have it off."  
  
Jean smiled. "I'll miss these," she said. She trailed her index finger delicately around the outline of his eye socket, then stroked her hand across his face. Scott caught her hand and kissed her fingertips.  
  
"I remember I used to pester the professor all the time to find some way to turn off my blasts," he said. "And now I just want them back."  
  
Jean smiled again, rather wistfully, and bent to her task. After examining the structure of the collar and figuring out how it was attached to him, she carefully disconnected the electric lock at the side. With a final look at her through his unobstructed vision, he donned his visor. "Go ahead," he said.  
  
She eased the prongs out of his neck. It didn't hurt at all; the tickle in the back of his head probably meant she was telepathically suppressing his pain receptors.  
  
Almost immediately, he felt the force of his optic blasts erupting from his eyes, threatening as always to burst out of the visor if given the slightest chance. Jean looked at him. "Back?"  
  
"Back," he said, and smiled at her.  
  
She set the collar aside. "I suppose we'll want to study that later. Might be useful sometime."  
  
"Rogue asked me all about it on the Blackbird. Whether it'd work on any mutant power." Scott grinned. "I think she wants one of her own."  
  
"Does she, now?" Jean raised an eyebrow. "I suspect Bobby would be in full support of that."  
  
She examined him in silence. "I don't want to push, but you know you can tell me," she said at last. "Or just let me into your head. That'd be easier."  
  
"Easier for me. Worse for you," Scott said.   
  
Jean took his hand and locked her fingers in his. "You were tortured," she said. It was a guess, but she said it as a statement of fact.  
  
"Yes," he said.  
  
She looked directly at him. As always, Scott was struck by the depth of wisdom and intuition in her expression. "Were you raped?"   
  
"Yes," he said.  
  
Her hand tightened. "Can you tell me about it?" she asked.  
  
He thought for a minute. "One of the soldiers. And... it was the serum Stryker used on Nightcrawler - Kurt - to get him to attack the President." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "He used it on Logan."  
  
The implication sunk in immediately. "God," Jean said softly.  
  
"It wasn't his fault," Scott said. "It wasn't really him. And he feels... I have a pretty good idea how he feels."  
  
He left it at that. He'd give her the particulars - more details than she could possibly want - when he was ready to let her into his thoughts. For now, she settled for wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing him against her. Scott surrendered to the comfort and love in her embrace, feeling some of the weariness and tension leave at last.  
  
"You'll get through this," she said. Another statement of fact.  
  
"I know," he said. It was muffled against her hair, but she would understand his meaning. As she understood everything, always, about him. "We both will." He didn't know if he meant himself and Jean, or himself and Logan.  
  
The immediate future would be rough. For this moment, however, in Jean's arms, everything was all right with the world.  
  
Cyclops wasn't anywhere in the mansion, which meant he was probably in the garage. It was where he retreated in times of stress, either there or in the hangar to work on the Blackbird, where he could work by himself, putting things back together in that precise, methodical way that so irritated Wolverine.  
  
Sure enough, there he was. Wolverine knew it before entering from the smell of soap and citrus lingering in the air. He pushed open the side door and walked in.  
  
The kid wasn't working on any of the cars, for a change. Wolverine remembered he had left the burnt-out shell of Cyclops' car in Bobby's driveway back in Boston. Small potatoes compared to all the grudges he could be holding against him. Cyclops was rebuilding a destroyed wall, and doing a damn professional job of it, from the look of things. He wore a crisp Oxford shirt and pressed slacks. Wolverine almost smiled. The Scott Summers idea of what to wear while spackling. The kid probably didn't even own a pair of jeans.   
  
Cyclops straightened up and glanced back at the sound of the door closing. He was wearing his red-tinted sunglasses again, those oddly beautiful eyes once more hidden from the world. He paused at the sight of Logan, then carefully set down his hammer and turned to face him. Behind the glasses, Wolverine didn't have a clue what he was feeling. He sensed his pulse had quickened, but he wasn't picking up on any fear. Just... caution. Wariness.  
  
"You want me to leave, say the word. You'll never see me again."  
  
Cyclops was silent for a long time. "I don't want you to leave, Logan." Perfectly composed.  
  
Wolverine stepped a little further into the room. Cyclops watched him closely. Logan leaned back against the professor's Bentley and crossed his arms over his chest in a deliberately casual display. Just two guys hanging out in a garage, talking about stuff, nothing big. "You sure about that?"  
  
"If you left, Rogue would probably blame me. I don't think Storm or Jean would like it much either."  
  
"I don't care about that right now," Logan said. "You okay with having me around after... everything?"  
  
"You didn't do anything," Scott said. "It was Stryker. Not you."   
  
Logan looked at him. "Pretty reasonable way of looking at it." Too reasonable.   
  
"What were you expecting? Hysterics?" Scott gave him a tight little grin. "I hate what was done to me. And I hate the part that you played in it. But I'm trying to make sure I hate the right people." He exhaled heavily. "I need to sort this out, and I can't do that if you take off again. So stick around."  
  
Wolverine looked over at the wall the kid was rebuilding. He'd already laid in the insulation, rigged up the new support posts. A neat stack of lumber rested against the wall, boards cut to size, ready to be fitted into place. He must have been up at dawn to get this much done. "I knew what was going on the whole time, you know. When Stryker used that shit on me. I thought I could control it, if I tried hard enough. I couldn't. And I hurt you because of it."  
  
"You overcame it enough to kill Stryker and... him," Cyclops said. "Magneto and Kurt couldn't control the effect it had on them at all."  
  
"You could." The words came out with a bitterness Wolverine hadn't realized he was feeling.  
  
Cyclops smiled. "Brain damage," he said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I have brain damage. Why the stuff didn't work on me." He looked directly at Wolverine. "I was in a plane crash as a kid. Hit my head, was in a coma for a while. That's when I lost control over the blasts." His jaw twitched. Even with the sunglasses, Wolverine could tell the memory pained him. "Not something you need to envy."   
  
"What happened after I killed Stryker, though. When he wasn't controlling me." This part was harder. "I wasn't under any orders then, and I still tried to... attack you."  
  
"But you didn't." Cyclops looked at him levelly. "You protected me instead." He shook his head. "I don't pretend to understand what was going on with you then - that's something the professor can probably work out with you, if you'll let him - but you were still under the influence of the serum, and yet you protected me. I'm grateful."  
  
Wolverine met his gaze, wishing he could see the eyes behind the visor, then nodded. "So, you and me, we're okay?" he asked.  
  
Another smile, genuine this time. "You and I have never been okay with each other. We're not necessarily worse off than before. That's all I can give you."  
  
It was probably enough. "Okay, then." He turned and started toward the door.  
  
Scott's words drew him up short. "Did you have a nice time in the tent with Mystique?"  
  
Logan stopped, but didn't turn. "Not really. Mystique doesn't smell anything like Jean." Or you, he thought.  
  
Scott snorted, then turned his attention back to his wall. Logan left the garage and walked across the front lawn. The cold and dark of Alkali Lake was a universe away.  
  
He walked toward the front gate of the mansion, intent on starting down the long drive that led to the road into town. He didn't know where he was heading. It didn't matter.  
  
He'd be back.  
  
THE END 


End file.
